


Ghost

by sciencefictioness



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Not New Material, Repost From Another Account, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 11:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13247379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: They’d long ago stopped dancing together the way they once had, the way Hanzo insisted on at first when Genji crawled into his bed.  Barely seventeen, flushed and brazen and unwilling to be denied any more.Still, Hanzo tried.It’s wrong, we shouldn’t, we can’t, I won’t.The steps had grown tedious, and harder to fake, until they eventually gave up.  That was fine with Genji.He liked this dance better, anyway.  The honesty of it, the surrender.  Hanzo’s fingers in his mouth as he bent him in half, Genji’s knees thrown over his shoulders, kisses painted into Genji’s flesh.  Blue black and bruising.  The faint outline of teeth.  A dusting of fingerprints over Genji’s hips.Hanzo’s hands on him, even when they were apart.It’s right, we should, we can.I will.You’re mine.A Shimada always took what was theirs, even if others insisted it wasn’t.And nothing on earth belonged to Hanzo quite like Genji did.





	Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> This is an excerpt of a larger piece you may have read before that I am no longer happy with. I didn't like the way I had characterized Jesse in the original, but many of the individual pieces stand alone quite well. You may have already ready Damascus, the mcgenji scene taken from this same story. Anyway, I wanted to repost this by itself as well, so it's not lost to my own moodiness. Please enjoy some angsty shimadas.

Genji remembered the exact moment everything began falling apart.  

 

When he looked back it was surreal.  Like watching a fire start in slow motion, the first sparks stoked to life, small and insignificant.

 

Until it burned everything down, and left Genji in ashes.

 

It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself there, or the second, or the third.  Genji had lost count of just how often he ended up naked between Hanzo’s sheets, all alone with the taste of alcohol lingering in his mouth, desperate and needful and waiting.  

 

He’d only had a little bit of sake, not enough to get drunk, but enough to let Hanzo think he might be.  It was easier that way, that shield of haziness, one more way to ease past Hanzo’s obligatory complaints.    

 

_ I am drunk, and foolish, indulge me brother. _

 

As though he didn’t want Hanzo sober, which was a lie he couldn’t manage to make himself believe.  A lie he’d stopped trying to even pretend was true years ago.  In the morning when the sun rose, in the evening when it set.  When he trained, when he showered, in his dreams.  In bed with the myriad of lovers he took to distract himself, even as he imagined they were Hanzo. 

 

Always Hanzo, Hanzo, Hanzo.

 

Genji ran himself in circles, and always came back home.

 

He shoved his face into Hanzo’s pillow, breathing in the scent of his shampoo and letting out a breathy sigh.  Genji twisted his legs around underneath the blankets, letting them slide against sheets, luxuriating in the feel of them on his skin.  They had the same mattresses, the same bedding, the same comforters and pillows.  Yet Genji could not sleep in his own bed, and would lie awake for hours staring at the ceiling.

 

A few minutes in Hanzo’s and Genji was drifting, safe and warm and surrounded by his brother, even in his absence.  A little longer, and Hanzo would have found him sleeping, curled up, quiet and still as he only was at rest.

 

Time was never really on Hanzo’s side, though.  The door opened, and Genji rolled over to face his brother, the sheet falling to his waist.  Genji smiled, a pleased, coy thing, dragging a hand slow down his neck.  Down his chest, lip between his teeth, blinking up at Hanzo from underneath his lashes.

 

“Anija, I've been waiting for you.”

 

They’d long ago stopped dancing together the way they once had, the way Hanzo insisted on at first when Genji crawled into his bed.  Barely seventeen, flushed and brazen and unwilling to be denied any more.

 

Still, Hanzo tried.

 

_ It’s wrong, we shouldn’t, we can’t, I won’t. _

 

The steps had grown tedious, and harder to fake, until they eventually gave up.  That was fine with Genji.

 

He liked this dance better, anyway.  The honesty of it, the surrender.  Hanzo’s fingers in his mouth as he bent him in half, Genji’s knees thrown over his shoulders, kisses painted into Genji’s flesh.  Blue black and bruising.  The faint outline of teeth.  A dusting of fingerprints over Genji’s hips, Hanzo’s hands on him, even when they were apart.

 

_ It’s right, we should, we can.   _

 

_ I will. _

 

_ You’re mine. _

 

A Shimada always took what was theirs, even if others insisted it wasn’t.

 

And nothing on earth belonged to Hanzo quite like Genji did.

 

Maybe he didn’t always have time to give Genji the things he needed, but sometimes Genji took them all the same.  That night Genji had grown tired of waiting, as he often did, the siren’s song of Hanzo’s touch too much to ignore.

 

When he finally took in Hanzo’s expression, though, warm and expectant in the cocoon of his brother’s sheets,  it wasn’t what he thought it would be.  Genji had memorized the look Hanzo gave him in those moments.  Exasperation layered over fondness.

 

Weariness laced through with want.

 

Instead, Hanzo looked _ haunted. _

 

There was blood on his face.  On his throat, on his hands, on his clothes.

 

He was staring at Genji, like watching something made of glass fall to the ground, in that surreal breath of space before it shattered.  More perfect in that instant than it had ever been before, with the certainty of destruction clinging to it like a shroud.

 

Whole, but unsalvageable.  

 

Nothing to do but watch it break.

 

“Hanzo?”

 

The love in his eyes made Genji feel sick.   It was something he had to chase after, something he had to steal.  Something Hanzo hid away, terrified it would be used against them.

 

Something Genji had to draw out of him with his hands and his mouth and his skin.  To have it written so plainly across Hanzo’s features meant something was wrong, and Genji sat up in bed, eyes darting from one crimson smear to the next, finally settling on Hanzo’s fingers, and the flash of silver sunk into a wash of red.

 

A shuriken, covered in blood, the barest hint of green on one edge.

 

One of his.

 

Then the sheer quantity of gore on Hanzo registered, and Genji was on his feet, tugging at Hanzo’s clothes.  Searching for an injury, frantic, hands quaking.

 

“Hanzo, what happened, are you hurt?  Is this your blood?  Where is it coming from, where di-”  Hanzo wrapped his free hand around Genji’s wrist, stilling his panicked movements.

 

“No, I am fine.  It’s not mine.  There was…  someone sent an assassin, Genji.”  

 

Anger.  As sharp as the blade in Hanzo’s hand, rolling over Genji like the tide until he was swimming in it.  An assassin.  His dragon riled just under his skin, stretching and shifting across his back, eager to be set loose.  Ready, as it always was, to devour his enemies.

 

His palms itched with the need for violence, achingly empty without a weapon in them, muscles restless, jaw grinding.  Someone had tried to kill his brother.  In his own house, while he lay uselessly in bed, lazy and dozing as Hanzo fought off an attacker.  Genji’s lip curled back from his teeth.  

 

“Did they hurt you?”  Genji demanded, still looking over Hanzo like he might suddenly vanish, or collapse.  Hanzo just shook his head.

 

“No.  They were unskilled, an amateur.  Whoever sent them knew that they would fail.”  Genji’s eyes narrowed, falling to the shuriken again, something disquiet roiling in his guts.

 

His shuriken.

 

“And who sent them?  Did you ask?”

 

_ Before you killed them, _ Genji didn’t say, but he didn’t have to.  All that blood spoke for itself.  There were noises from the hallway, the low staccato sound of their clan members swarming the property, making sure no one else had snuck in while they were unaware.  Hanzo met Genji’s eyes again and winced, like it hurt to look at him.  Then they fell to the ground, unseeing.

 

“I did.  They said…”  Hanzo’s grip on the shuriken tightened, until Genji could see blood welling from a fresh wound in Hanzo’s palm, dripping down his knuckles.  Genji wrapped his hand around Hanzo’s own, easing his hold on the steel, waiting for him to continue.  Those dark eyes were on his again, boring into Genji, and for the briefest of moments he felt like he was falling.  “They said a little bird sent them.”

 

A little bird.

 

_ Sparrow. _

 

Something snapped inside of Genji, anger giving way to something more primal.  Vicious, ragged hatred.

 

His shuriken.

 

A little bird.

 

_ “No.”   _ Genji reached up, laying his palms on either side of Hanzo's face, one of them smearing red across his cheek.  They shook.  His voice shook. 

 

Genji shook all over.  

  
  


_ “No,  _ anija, no, no.  You know, you know better, I-  I love you, I-”  Hanzo’s arm flew up, the strike of a snake, fast and unexpected.  

 

There was a dull thud, and the shuriken was buried in the plaster over Hanzo’s bed, a streak of dark liquid dripping down the wall like a wound.  

 

Then Hanzo had Genji in his arms, one hand clutching at messy green stands, the other tight around his waist.

 

“I know.  I know it wasn't you.  I know.”  Hanzo's hand stroked through Genji’s hair.  His lips were at Genji's temple, soft and wet.  “We both know who sent them.”

 

A little bird.  His shuriken.

 

The elders.  Trying to turn them against one another.

 

Trying to make Hanzo his enemy.

 

Midori roared in Genji’s ears, roiling unhappily in his skin, hungry for the taste of their foes.

 

“They’ve gone too far.  What if you’d been drunk, or sleeping, or-”  Hanzo shushed him, hand clutching too tight at his hair, harsh and stinging.

 

“You doubt my prowess, little brother?”  It was a weak attempt at humor, and Genji shuddered against Hanzo, hands fisting in his bloody gi.

 

“They tried to take you from me.”  Hanzo eased back, a bloody thumb tracing over Genji’s bottom lip, hair messy around his face.

 

“It is not me they mean to harm with this, Genji.”

 

Genji saw his own wrath reflected in Hanzo’s gaze, mirrored there, amplified.  Because he was right, they weren’t really trying to take Hanzo from Genji.

 

They were trying to get rid of Genji altogether.  The errant son of the Shimada clan, who cared nothing about their empire or traditions or plans.

 

Who could often be found on his knees in the corner of a club, or on his back in shady motel rooms.  Sometimes beneath members of rival yakuza clans.

 

By accident, of course.

 

Spoiled by their father, protected viciously from criticism, but the elder Shimada wasn’t around to watch out for his little sparrow anymore.  Hanzo was trying.

 

God, he was  _ trying. _

 

The elders were impatient, though, tired of seeing Genji parade lovers in and out of Hanamura without and shred of discretion.  Tired of watching him fuck his way through half the village, but never appear at Hanzo’s side for clan meetings.  Genji assumed, at first, they would forget about him eventually.  He should have known better.  Being good with his steel wasn’t enough.  Gay, loud, promiscuous.  Totally shameless.  Not to mention that Genji had no taste for violence.  He had killed for the clan before, as they all had, but he did not revel in it the way most of his family did.

 

He’d heard it all his life, whispered just out of his father’s earshot, low and disdainful.

 

_ That one has no respect. _

 

Genji was a stain they’d been forced to look at for too long.  

 

One they couldn’t wash out, and so they’d taken knives to the Shimada’s cloth instead.

 

Hanzo’s hand flattened on Genji’s spine, creeping upwards slowly, pressing them tighter together.  His thumb still sat on Genji’s lip, rubbing back and forth.

 

“You cannot continue like this, Genji.  It’s too dangerous.  Fall in line, or out completely.  You have to choose.”

 

It was an argument they’d had before, and one they would have again.  Stay or go.

 

Be a Shimada, or do not be one.  There was no in between.  The blood on Hanzo’s clothes, the red slicking down from the shuriken in Hanzo’s wall.

 

The dead man in the courtyard.

 

They spoke loudly enough that even Genji could hear.  Stay, or go.

 

Genji couldn’t be someone he was not.  Did not have it in himself to play a role for his family, to put on a facade, to pretend.

 

But he also couldn’t leave without his brother.

 

“Come with me, anija.  We can go together.”  Hanzo broke apart in stages, one piece at a time.  His eyes shining, his brows furrowing, his mouth twisting.  Shoulders falling, breath leaving him in a sigh that never seemed to end, until Genji wondered if he would breathe out all he was and be left empty.

 

“I cannot.  You know I cannot, Genji.”  Genji felt like a ghost, with the way Hanzo was staring, the way he was touching him.

 

Like he was already gone.

 

“Don’t look at me like that Hanzo.  I’m right here.  I won’t leave you.”  

 

Genji leaned forward and brought their mouths together, and Hanzo made a sound into the kiss.

 

Something like defeat.  Something lost.

 

His hands trembled as they moved down to Genji’s hips, and he hesitated, palms hovering just over his skin.

 

“What’s wrong, anija?”

 

Hanzo touched him them, blood streaking over Genji’s stomach, bright red painted into his abdomen.  His fingertips dug in as Genji eased his gi off his shoulder, working to untie his obi.

 

“I broke a bowstring today.  I shattered a vase in the temple.  I killed a man in the courtyard.”

 

_ I break everything I touch. _

 

Hanzo didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to.  

 

“I don’t want to hurt you too, Genji.”  Red staining Genji’s skin.

 

His shuriken in the wall.

 

A little bird.  An angry dragon.

 

_ I’ll break you, too. _

 

“You won’t, Hanzo.  You won’t.”

 

Genji was wrong.

 

But he didn’t know it right then.  

 

So he pulled Hanzo down onto the bed, and spread his thighs, tugging his brother between them.  They kissed until Genji’s mouth was sore.

 

And then kissed more, Hanzo’s lips retracing familiar paths down Genji’s body, leaving marks where no one else could see.  Genji opened for him, as he opened for no one else.  Not just with his body, but with all of himself.  He whispered into Genji’s skin in broken gasps,  _ I won’t let them hurt you, I won’t, I won’t. _

 

Hanzo’s hands never stopped shaking.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
